Little Lies
by Sadie Flood
Summary: Luke receives an unexpected visitor. Written for the Improv.


Title: Little Lies  
Author: Sadie Flood (sadieflood666@yahoo.com)  
Rating: PG  
Improv: mercury, jovial, intellect, keg, granite  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone.  
Author's Note: Parts 1 and 5 take place during the spring of 2002. Parts 2, 3, and 4 take place during the spring of 2001.  
Spoilers: References to the end of season 1, a character that isn't around in season 1, and a little bit about the last couple of episodes of season 2.  
  
  
1.  
  
"I didn't come back here for you."  
  
He knows he should be surprised by neither the sentiment nor the bluntness of her expression. Yet he can't help feeling taken aback, maybe a little offended, like why didn't she come back for him, why shouldn't she have?  
  
"Okay," he says simply, and continues wiping down the counter, trying to keep enjoying the daily lull between lunchtime and dinner.  
  
"I'm just saying, maybe you heard I was around and thought some things that you shouldn't be thinking."  
  
"I heard nothing of the sort. Welcome back to town." He pauses. "Coffee, then?"  
  
2.  
  
"Stumble into a bit of the mercury, there?" He's sounding uncharacteristically jovial today, at least to out-of-towners like this one, the only way he can keep from tearing the place and everyone in it apart.  
  
She sizes him up, a bit annoyed, like maybe he thinks she doesn't know what he's talking about, but of course she does, she went to college, she paid attention. "You're astoundingly observant," she says, hoping to frighten away this yokel with a couple of big words.  
  
"Comes with the territory," he grins, refilling her mug. He moves on then, leaves her to contemplate the unfortunate events of the past 48 hours.   
  
Part one: the unfortunate poison ivy infection. First him, then her. She nursed him, you see, this ridiculous quasi-beau, on this ridiculous camping trip. She fixed him up, good as new.   
  
Part two: his departure. He says, "I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore." She isn't broken up about it, but she asks why anyway, she likes the posthumous appraisal of a relationship's faults. He says, "It's just that--I'm really sorry--but just then, you reminded me of my mother." He says, you stay, I'll go now. As well he should; it's her car, after all. He gets his stuff, hitches a ride back to the city with a group of fellow students. She stays for about five minutes before wondering, why the hell am I still here?  
  
Part three: the car gives up. She wonders what it says about her that she's far more distraught over the car's illness than over the departure of this week's boyfriend.   
  
So she's stuck here in this stupid little podunk town, with its overpriced antique stores and calculated whimsy by the bushel, with a rash on the back of one hand to remind her of yet another romantic misstep.   
  
And now this yahoo is trying to make small talk?  
  
3.   
  
He takes a minute to himself, goes upstairs, tries to sort his thoughts out. So she's really getting married, then, to that teacher-and isn't there some law against that, anyway, marrying one of your own daughter's teachers? Why should this upset him? She's his friend. He should be pleased for her, he knows. And it's probably very good for Rory.  
  
But he still feels like throwing something. Or hitting somebody.  
  
He returns to the counter. The only person around is that woman with the poison ivy, which he isn't sure is sanitary, for her to just be hanging around. He considers asking her to leave, all she's been drinking all day are free coffee refills anyway. He's in a confrontational mood. He heads over. She glances at him with irritation, as if she knows just by looking at him that his intellect is inferior to her own. He knows her type. She looks like a professor at one of the colleges nearby. He hates them. He is more determined than ever that this woman must leave right this second.  
  
But she softens suddenly. She says, "Hey, thanks for letting me stick around," in a tone much nicer or at least less abrasive than she'd used in their previous conversation.   
  
He says, "Well, I was just--"  
  
She says, "My car broke down on the way back to New York. I'll be stuck here for a couple of days, I guess. Is there someplace to stay around here?"  
  
"That's terrible. Where'd you take your car?"  
  
"Some shop a couple of streets over. I don't know the name of it."  
  
"I could've taken a look at that for you."  
  
"Too bad I didn't know you before I took it there."  
  
"You don't know me now. I'm Luke," he offers.  
  
"Sophie," she says. "I'd shake your hand, but, well..."  
  
And he really laughs, for the first time since he got the news that seems bad even if he can't quite identify why.   
  
4.   
  
The doors are locked now, but they're still inside.  
  
He won't talk about what's upsetting him, it's been hours now that they've been talking, but he won't spill his guts, and she gets the feeling that he never does, never has, never will.  
  
She doesn't mind. She's around snot-nosed post-adolescents day in and day out, children of the psychoanalysis generation, who like nothing more than to analyze their own problems and yours and call it flirting or foreplay. Once in a while she pretends she likes it, never a student in a current class, but more often than not it'll be some boy she taught about feminist literature or jazz in a class he thought would be easy a couple of years ago, taking a break from keg parties and sorority babes to indulge in the tradition of screwing a professor, being figuratively deflowered by an older woman, and she doesn't mind playing that part for them. She gets what she wants, for a while, but they never hold her interest.  
  
Her new friend seems mildly appalled when she tells him about the stupid, stupid boy who left her behind at the stupid, stupid campsite.   
  
And in the morning, as she dresses in one of his favorite flannel shirts and her own jeans, he says he made a call, he went to that shop, he fixed her car himself.  
  
He expects her to be pleased. He realizes too late that she'll take it as a sign that she should leave. It was the last thing he intended, and it's the first thing she does.  
  
5.   
  
He locks up. She takes him to the shop she's opened. "Music, huh?" he asks.  
  
"Yeah," she says.   
  
She's gathered from a little unintentional research--i.e. gossip, from the mouths of that chatty dance teacher and the man who runs the grocery store (she can never be bothered to remember names when she doesn't have to)--that his torch is carried for a single mother who lives in the area, a frequent customer, a long-time friend. She hears they're on the outs now, figures that must be what was bothering him last year when they first met. Not that he'd ever admit it; the man is like granite, and she actually hopes he doesn't break, she doesn't want to have to be a mother again and put him back together.  
  
He explains later his intentions about the car, and she assures him that she didn't take it the wrong way. In fact, she's the one who's sorry. And he smiles, and she smiles, and he wonders if what she said before about not coming back for him was the first lie she'll tell him. He's surprised to find he hopes it was a lie.  
  
In the morning, she dresses in that same flannel shirt and those same jeans.   
  
She says, "Just don't use me to get at her, okay?"  
  
He says, "That's not an issue anymore, believe me."  
  
"Good." And she smiles. "Maybe I'll see you later."  
  
"Yeah," he smiles back, his voice a little softer than usual. "I hope so."   
  
As the lock clicks, he wonders if that's the first lie he'll tell her.  
  
He really hopes it isn't. 


End file.
